


fitting in

by fluffysfics



Series: rewriting history [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Agent O - Freeform, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Unresolved family issues, chameleon arch shenanigans, do they count as unresolved if they’re all fake, either way O Is Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28435080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: Agent O’s nightmares are getting worse. He’ll take comfort wherever he can, and thankfully, the inhabitants of the TARDIS always have some words of advice for him.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: rewriting history [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064198
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	fitting in

Two weeks pass, and the nightmares don’t stop. 

O takes to sleeping in the Doctor’s bed whenever she’ll let him, and not sleeping whenever she won’t. Sometimes she spends her nights just as restlessly as him, it seems, and she doesn’t want even _his_ company. But that’s fine. She has her mysteries, and he’s hardly entitled to make her talk about things she doesn’t want to go into. 

Tonight is one of the not-sleeping nights. However, O is not alone, for once. He’s in one of the TARDIS’ many kitchens, making samosas with Yaz. 

He distinctly remembers watching his mother make these in his childhood, and yet the steps still feel somewhat alien to him. It’s a sensation he’s experienced a lot lately, like some sort of twisted opposite of deja vu. O pokes at a pan full of potato frying in spices, hearing the little cubes hiss and sizzle. It does very little to distract from his thoughts. 

“Yaz,” he says after a minute, waiting until she’s turned from her own workstation to look questioningly at him before he continues. “D’you ever feel like...like you’re not quite the person you’re supposed to be?” 

She sets down a large, sharp knife, and steps over to the stovetop. Her arm nudges against his, just for a moment. “What d’you mean, O?” 

“It’s-“ He breaks off with a sigh. “Bear with me. Hard to explain. But- I was just thinking, right? I remember visiting family in Delhi as a kid. Watching my cousins make samosas just like this. And I’d get drafted in to help when I was old enough. My mum’d get me to chop all the fillings for her when I was responsible enough to use a knife. But this- here, with you, this feels like the first time I’ve ever done this. And I don’t know why.” 

Dark eyes so like his own regard him curiously, and he thinks, not for the first time, that Yaz is a lot like the Doctor. Just...younger, softer, more breakable. 

“I might know what you mean,” she says carefully. “And stir the potatoes before you burn them, mate. C’mon.” 

“Oh. Sorry,” O says sheepishly, and pokes at the potatoes some more, flipping them so that every side will brown evenly. He stays quiet, waiting for Yaz to elaborate. 

“I didn’t have a great time of it, as a teenager. Anxiety, depression, the whole nine yards. You know. And- that was only four or five years ago, really. And it feels like whole lifetimes, ‘cause I’ve changed so much. ‘Specially recently, with the Doctor. And the me from then, she’s nothing like the me from now. It kind of feels like I’m watchin’ movies about this random person I don’t know, when I look at what I did back then.” Yaz sighs. “D’you see what I’m getting at? Add the potatoes into my pan, would you?” 

She steps aside, and O carries his potatoes across the room to a half-cooled pan of spiced meat and vegetables. “I think I get it,” he says thoughtfully. “I’ve changed a lot, so you’re saying that what happened in my old life might not feel so real anymore.” 

“Pretty much.” Yaz gently moves him out of the way to mix the pan full of fillings together. “Does that help?” 

O stares at the floor. He remembers his whole life, clear as day. His parents’ names and faces, what the rest of his family looks like, what he did with them. The places he grew up, and where he went to school, the names of his bullies and his few friends. But if he thinks too hard about any specific moment, it really is just like watching a movie. 

“I think so,” he says softly. He’s not convinced that Yaz’s explanation entirely holds true for whatever’s going on in his head. But it’s all he’s going to get for now. If he thinks about it for long enough, he’s sure he can convince himself that it’s true. 

“Good.” Yaz turns her head back to smile at him. “Come help me fill these? Cheating a bit, totally didn’t make the pastry. But that takes _forever_. I mean- you probably know that.” 

“Mm.” O is aware of that, in the same way he’s aware of most things that could be looked up online. Not like something he’s internalised from his childhood. Nevertheless, he steps up next to Yaz and picks up a spoon, starting to fill each square of pastry and fold it into a delicate triangle. “Did you used to make these with your family?” 

She seems to light up at that, a smile spreading over her face that really does remind him of the Doctor. It makes his heart flutter, just a little, in the same way he gets nervous around any pretty person who so much as looks in his direction, even now. Even though he has the attention of maybe the most attractive person of all. 

“I did,” she says. “My nan taught me and Sonia when we were kids. Proper little kids. My dad- I love him, but he’s a _terrible_ cook. Always burns everything, but leaves it raw in the middle. Kinda impressive, actually. So my nan wanted to make sure there was _someone_ in the world who wasn’t butchering all her recipes.” 

Yaz keeps talking, telling him happily about her family, visits to Pakistan, how she learned to cook. O half-listens, and allows himself to fall into an easy rhythm of samosa-making, until there’s a plate of neat little triangles sat in front of him. Hearing her talk about her family, he can’t help but wonder if the problem is with him, or with his parents. He doesn’t ever remember quite so many _emotions_ being involved in anything he did with them. 

He rests his hands quietly on the countertop, and takes a deep, shuddering breath. Yaz stops, halfway through a story about her dad setting a baking tray on fire, and frowns at him. “O? You okay?” 

His gaze snaps up to hers. He finds himself blinking away tears, for _some_ reason. “I just- yeah, I’m fine.” He shakes his head. “Your family seems a lot nicer than mine. More affectionate. And forgiving. And accepting. All of that. My parents...not so much.” 

Somehow, that doesn’t quite feel like the reason why he’s crying. 

Nevertheless, Yaz squeezes his arm comfortingly, and steers him towards one of the chairs at the kitchen table. “It’s very late,” she says pragmatically. “Don’t worry. Feelings get funny this late at night. You want to get something in your stomach, that’ll help. Sit there, let me get these cooked.” 

She turns away, and O folds his arms on the table, resting his head on them. He can hear the hiss of frying oil, smell pastry and spices and so many things that should be intimately familiar to him. And yet, they are _not_. He feels like he is living in a body that has not experienced all the things that it _should_ have done. And it’s always worse late at night, like the haze of sleepiness twists his memories even further out of shape. 

After a while, he feels a hand on his back, and hears a plate being set down in front of him. 

“Hey,” Yaz says softly. “Eat somethin’, mate. Trust me. It helps.” 

He lifts his head, picks up a samosa, and quietly starts to eat it. He really doesn’t expect it to help with anything, but- but it kind of _does_. It tastes warm, and comforting, and even though it’s not quite as familiar as it ought to be, it is _delicious_. 

“You’re a really good cook, Yaz.” O manages a small, genuine smile for the first time that night, and she practically glows with pride. 

“Yeah. Not bad, am I?” She shoots him a grin through a mouthful of samosa. “Feeling any better?” 

“A little bit.” He scoots his chair closer to hers, resting his head on her shoulder. “Thanks, Yaz. You’re a good friend.” 

“You’re not bad yourself.” She nudges the plate towards him again. “Eat some more. We made a _lot_ of these. The others can have the leftovers in the mornin’, but we get first dibs,” she says, elbowing him gently like they’re sharing some important secret. 

He really likes Yaz. She gets him- at least, as well as anyone can really _get_ what’s going on inside his head. She’s rational, and calm, and she always has such comfortingly _human_ explanations for everything. 

It’s odd, but she feels like the first proper friend he’s ever had. 

——

The next night finds him in the Doctor’s bed again. He’s curled against her with his face in the soft shoulder of her coat, her hand gently stroking through his hair. It feels nice, sending wonderful tingles down his spine every few seconds. It’s been _days_ since he’s felt relaxed like this. Maybe weeks. 

“Hey,” the Doctor says, very softly. “O, you still awake?”

He hums an agreement, not bothering to lift his hand, although he does give the Doctor’s arm a quick squeeze. 

“Hello. Was just wonderin’. You hadn’t said anything in a while.” The Doctor scratches lightly behind one of his ears, and the tingles progress into a full-blown shudder of pleasure. Oh, that’s _good_. Sighing happily, O encourages her to give him _more_. 

There’s contented silence as she scratches him for a few more minutes, but O can tell that there’s something on the Doctor’s mind. She can’t quite relax next to him, her breathing never slowing enough to let the tension drain out of her muscles. 

After a while, he looks up. “Doctor,” he mumbles sleepily. “Wha’s on your mind, love?” 

She blinks at him, surprised. Then she sighs. “I know you aren’t sleeping very well, O. TARDIS tells me you’ve been wandering around whenever you aren’t sleeping with _me_. What’s up?” 

Oh, no. O bites his lip. He’d been trying to hide this from the Doctor, because he didn’t want to worry her. But he should have known that that was impossible. 

“I just, um...nightmares,” he says softly. “Bad dreams. Stupid, stupid dreams- I never understand what they’re about and then I can’t remember them when I wake up. Ever. But I don’t get them when I fall asleep next to you.” 

The Doctor stares at him, her face softening, and then she wraps him in a tight hug. “Oh, _O_...” She hugs him tighter, until it’s almost crushing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just- I just threw you into all this alien stuff and I didn’t _think_ about how it might affect you, and now...” She sighs, burying her face in his shoulder. “Can I fix this? Even a bit?” 

O slips his arms around her in return, and chews on his lip again. “I...I want to go home, Doctor,” he says, and then he realises how that sounds. “ _Oh_ \- not forever. God, no, not forever. But- but I want to visit my parents. We haven’t really spoken in years. And I- I think I need to go and clear the air. I think that might settle my head a bit.” 

They’d been on his mind so much lately; his childhood, his memories, how nothing quite felt _real_. If he could see these people from his past, he’d be okay. He’d feel a bit more like he...fit in. Maybe. Hopefully. 

“I can take you home for a visit. That’s fine. Totally fine,” the Doctor promises, kissing him on the top of the head. “Tomorrow, though? Bit late right now.” 

“Tomorrow’s fine,” O agrees softly, lifting his head to kiss the Doctor properly. He loves her _so_ much. This mad, wild, gorgeous alien who likes _him_ , who understands him, who feels somehow like a kindred spirit even though there are worlds between them. He would do anything for her, and sometimes he thinks that the feeling is mutual, and that is a _dizzying_ prospect. 

“Good,” the Doctor murmurs when they break apart. Then she kisses him one more time, and he finally feels her relaxing in his arms. “Now get some sleep, O. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he murmurs, nestling back against the Doctor’s shoulder. Her hand returns to his hair, stroking it like it’s something precious, like it’s made of pure gold. He sighs, letting his eyes slowly drift shut. 

He’ll always be safe in the Doctor’s arms. That, he is certain of. 

**Author's Note:**

> brace yourselves friends the next fic in this series is gonna get real angsty again— but in the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this kinda-fluffy-ish interlude! I love seeing your comments so much, I’m so glad you’re enjoying this series <3


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